


Complications

by Gallyrat



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 07:49:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2804969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gallyrat/pseuds/Gallyrat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas arrives. Perhaps the Grimmsters have gotten too comfortable with the old routine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Complications

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Franzeska](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Franzeska/gifts).



_“He puzzled and puzzled ‘till his puzzler was sore.”_

_-How the Grinch Stole Christmas_

Nick Burkhardt woke to the smell of bacon, and knew instantly that it was a bad sign.

Juliette, his girlfriend, the love of his life, stood above him, holding an old wooden tray laden heavily with breakfast food of all shapes and sizes. Nick blinked sleepily once, then twice, and finally managed to summon enough coherence to mumble, “Good morning.”

“Good morning yourself,” Juliette said, placing the tray over his lap.

“Breakfast in bed?” He asked, only realizing a moment later that that might not have been the smartest question to ask, because obviously it was breakfast in bed.

“You’ve been working so hard recently,” Juliette said, bending down and giving him a kiss on the forehead. “We thought we’d surprise you.”

“We?” Nick asked. 

“I helped,” came a voice from the doorway, which Nick recognized as Trubel’s after only a brief moment of tired confusion. “I mean, everything I cooked had to go into the garbage, but I helped.”

“She was very helpful,” Juliette said. “It’s Christmas Eve, Nick. Today is your day off. You’re going to eat breakfast in bed, and relax, and then tonight we’re going to go over to Monroe and Rosalee’s and drink too much wine.”

It sounded wonderful, and Nick knew that it wasn’t going to happen. Nick Burkhardt did not wake up to the smell of bacon, get a kiss from his girlfriend, and then live through an eventless, wonderful day. It simply did not happen. Which was why he was not at all surprised when his cell phone began buzzing.

He checked caller ID. The captain. Sometimes, his life was almost a little too predictable.

XX

Hank Griffin did not wake to the smell of bacon. He, in fact, did not wake to anything at all, save the sound of the television, which he must’ve forgotten to turn off, and his cell phone blasting “Billie Jean” in his ear at max volume, far too loud for however early it was on Christmas Eve. It was times like this Hank wondered if he had made the right choice, with all those divorces. It wasn’t that he didn’t love the single life – it just seemed that these days, all he got were strike-outs and hexenbiests trying to murder him.

He answered the phone, almost relieved to have an excuse to leave the empty apartment.

XX

It took Nick roughly thirty-five minutes to shower, dress, stuff a forkful of Juliette’s (and Trubel’s?) delicious breakfast in his mouth and drive to the murder scene.

It was a cold day, even for Portland in December. Hank was already there, flanked by Wu, apparently waiting for him. They stood outside a small, suburban home, the type that looked the exact same as every other house for a good two miles in any direction. Police milled about, giving him brief nods as he passed. It was comfortable, familiar, and helped take the edge off the fact that he was working on Christmas Eve. 

“Well, well, well,” Wu said as he approached. “If it isn’t Mr. I’m-too-good-to-work-Christmas-Eve-with-the-rest-of-us.”

Nick shrugged his shoulders. “You know me. Just can’t resist a good homicide.” Truthfully, the captain had offered him an extra day if he had taken the case – something about it had made the captain deem it especially Grim-necessary.

“Well then you won’t be disappointed,” Wu said, leading them inside the house. “I’m not gonna lie and say it’s the weirdest thing I’ve seen, but it’s up in the top five.” He paused. “Ten. Maybe twelve. I’ve seen some weird stuff on this job.”

“Haven’t we all,” Hank said. They turned the corner and found the victim, which was never exactly a pleasant experience, but was always more difficult when the corpse’s arm was cut clean off.

It was a woman, middle aged. She might’ve been pretty, once, but time had added wrinkles and lines and now she looked mostly plain. Her right arm lay haphazardly in the corner, separated cleanly from the rest of her body, and the front of her shirt was soaked in blood.

“We got the call from the neighbors this morning,” Wu explained as Nick and Hank examined the scene. “Apparently they smelled the blood from outside. No sign of forced entry, but our vic here was notorious for leaving her back door unlocked, according to the rest of the neighborhood.”

“Any fingerprints?” Hank asked. Nick busied himself looking for any signs of a struggle – there was nothing, of course.

“No fingerprints,” Wu said, shaking his head. “But all the doors were closed.”

“So our attacker got in and out without leaving prints,” Nick said. “Gloves?”

“Probably,” Hank agreed. “What do we know about the weapon?”

“Well, her arm was cut off, in case you’ve gone temporarily blind,” Wu said. “She was also stabbed. Forensics said the arm went first, then the stab, according to some blood splatter analysis.

“So a bladed weapon,” Nick said, bending down to examine the stab wound and doing his best to avoid the victim’s eyes. “Too big to be a machete.”

“What, a sword then?” Hank asked.

Nick rubbed at his stubble. “Maybe. Or maybe something more…exotic.”

“Like a kukri,” Wu chimed in. Nick and Hank glanced at him.

“You know, a kukri,” Wu said. “Kinda like a…bended...sword.” He made some gestures with his hands. “Anyway. That’s all I got.”

“No suspects?” Nick asked.

“Traffic cams caught a truck park here late last night,” Wu said. “At least, we think it parked here. It moved past the camera, and then a while later it moved back past the camera. We’ve gotta get better angles for those things.”

“A car driving by?” Hank asked. “Is that really a lead?”

“It’s the only thing we’ve got right now. Might as well try it,” Nick said. “Wu, put someone on tracking that car down. Call me when you get it.”

“Aye aye, detective,” Wu said with a salute.

“Do you think it’s a bad sign that I don’t even think this case is that weird?” Nick asked Hank as they got into the car.

“I think it comes with the territory,” Hank admitted. “Trailer?”

Nick nodded and pulled his phone from his pocket. “Yeah, let’s head in that direction.  I’m gonna hit up Rosalee and Monroe.”

“Man, we’ve got this Wesen stuff down to a _science_ ,” Hank said, pulling into traffic with the casual confidence of a practiced driver who also happens to know every traffic officer in the city. “Nothing can throw us off our game now.”

XX

If, by some random chance, a person had walked into Monroe and Rosalee’s household without knowing it was Christmas, a quick look around would’ve been more than enough to fill them in.

Rosalee Calvert had a long and complicated past with the winter holiday, but her husband had no such qualms, and so she was doing her best to dissociate her old, harsher memories and supplant them with newer, happier ones. So far, it was working out well - she had a lot of people to thank for that.

Monroe's cell phone, momentarily forgotten under one of the many bridges the toy train in the living room rolled over in an infinite loop, sprung to life suddenly, snapping Rosalee out of her moment of reflection.

"Ein kleiner weißer Schneemann/der steht vor meiner Tür,"

Jingle Bells, in German, at maximum volume. Every once in a while, Rosalee was forced to step back and realize that the man she had chosen to spend her life with was a massive dork.

She rolled her eyes, but didn't bother to fight the smile as she picked the phone up. Monroe was taking out the trash - she'd hand the phone to him when he got back in. "Hello?" 

"Rosalee," came Nick's voice. "I need to talk to Monroe about a homicide."

"Sure," Rosalee said, peering around the corner for any sight of her husband, "but just for the record, Nick, this is the kind of stuff I'm trying to  _disassociate_ with Christmas."

"Is that Nick?" Monroe asked, shaking some half melted snow off his boots as he trudged inside. "Tell him to tell Juliette that I finally found that Chardonnay I was telling her about the other day, and-"

"Nick wants to talk to you about a murder," Rosalee said, handing him the phone. She hated interrupting him, but sometimes it was necessary. Monroe had a wide variety of interests, and the only thing he like more than said interests was the chance to talk about them ad nauseam. 

"Again?" Monroe asked, thumbing the speaker button. "I thought you were off today."

"Crime never sleeps, Monroe," Nick said. A pause. "And neither does Hank, he wants me to tell you that."

"Well if you're calling me, I assume it's a Wesen," Monroe said.

"We're just not sure what kind," Nick replied. "Victim was found with a stab wound and one arm sliced off. Some kind of long, bladed weapon. Sword-like."

"Maybe a kukri," Monroe mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Rosalee? Any ideas?"

"It _could_ be a Schwertgelenk," she suggested, shrugging one shoulder. "There aren't very many of them left, and they prefer warmer climates, but..."

"A Schwertgelenk!" Monroe said, snapping his fingers. "It could totally be one of those guys!"

"Never heard of them," Nick said.

"They're kinda hard to describe," Monroe admitted. "Kind of a cross between like, a bear, and a cat, and some kind of dog. They're kinda like Wesen shock troopers. Really hard to kill-"

"Lovely."

"And they have these bone swords in their forearms that they can extend like cat claws. It's where the name comes from, it means "sword-joint" in German and honestly, if you ever get the chance to see it, it's fascinating."

"I'm admit, I stopped paying attention when you said bone swords," Nick said. "I don't suppose they have some kind of secret weakness?"

"Not that I know of," Monroe said. He shot a glance at Rosalee, and she simply shook her head.

"Fantastic. Well, thanks for the help," Nick said. "I promise, Hank and I will be there tonight."

"Can't wait!" Monroe said, and the look of unabashed glee in his eye reminded Rosalee why she was the luckiest woman in the entire world.

XX

The trailer smelled like it usually did, of old books and older knowledge and a plethora of lethal weaponry, whatever that smelled like. Hank had to admit, he had grown kind of fond of it. It was like stepping into a different world, one that was darker, more mysterious.

"Okay, I think I've got it," Nick said, holding up one of the ancient, leather bound journals written by his ancestors. "Originally in German, but there's a partial translation here, hold on. Uh...I encountered the Schwertgelenk just outside of town - they had heard of my presence and were determined to gain the kind of legend that only slaying a Grimm can bring. I...oh, this is just a really description of how he murdered them."

"Anything useful in there?" Hank asked.

"Maybe this part at the end...though the Schwetgelenk were powerful foes, they attacked with plan or reason, throwing themselves senselessly into the fray. They were also driven to near frenzy at the smell of blood, which allowed me...okay, we're back to the murder descriptions."

"Well, that's something at least."

They fell silent then, the kind of silence that evolves naturally between two people who have been friends for a long, long time, and who have occasionally woken up in the same bed, Juliette between them, all three nursing hangovers and a distinct lack of clothing.

Billie Jean began playing, and he answered the phone, almost upset to have  to leave the trailer. 

XX

Andrew Baker, the owner of the mysterious midnight truck and their only (and tenuous) lead on the case, was not a very pleasant man. Luckily, Nick was well versed in handling unpleasant people. He was slightly less versed in handling unpleasant animal people, but he still considered himself pretty good at that. 

"Well, Andrew, you've got quite a few arrests under your belt," Nick said. He sat at the same table Andrew did, opposite side, while hank leaned against the wall behind the suspect. It was a classic police trick - remove one officer from the suspect's sight, get him nervous, on edge, exploit that. "Breaking and entering, thievery, an assault charge-"

"You just gonna read my rap sheet?" Andrew cut in. "I know what I did. I served my time." He was a large man, and a dangerous looking one, with a full beard and heavily muscled arms that were covered in more tattoos than you could shake a stick at. Not that Nick particularly wanted to shake a stick at anything (he had to admit he had no idea where that expression came from). 

"That's true," Nick admitted. "We just want to know where you were at midnight last night."

"I was driving home," Andrew said.

"In your black, 2011 Ford F-150?" Hank asked.

Andrew had to twist his neck to answer. "Yeah, that's my car."

"Care to explain what you were doing on Hanover drive?" Nick asked. Andrew twisted his neck back around, annoyed. Nick saw Hank smirk out of the corner of his eye. 

"I was coming back from a Renaissance fair."

Nick arched an eyebrow. "A renaissance fair?" 

"Yeah, a renaissance fair," Andrew said, scowling. "You know, knights, princesses, medieval stuff."

"Can anyone confirm you were actually there?" Hank asked. 

Andrew didn't even bother to twist his neck around, instead narrowing his eyes in frustration. "Yes. I had friends there."

"But not with you, when you were in the car," Hank asked. Nick kept his eyes peeled for a woge, but Andrew refused to give him an inch.

"No. Are you actually charging me with anything?" Andrew asked. "I'm free to go at any time, right?"

Nick and Hank exchanged glances. They were about to lose him - it was time to pull out the big guns.

"We're not officially charging you with anything, so of course you're free to go," Nick said. He slipped the tip of his thumb inside his mouth and bit, hard, breaking skin. The salty taste of his own blood hit his tongue, and he put his hand down on the table, giving Andrew a front row seat to the minor wound.

Several long seconds passed. Andrew stared at the finger. Then he cleared his throat, nodded awkwardly, and walked out of the room.

"Anything?" Hank asked as the door clicked shut.

Nick shook his head. "Not even partially. Either he's got the best self control in the world-"

"Not likely."

"Or he's not out guy," Nick finished, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his non bloody hand. 

"So we've got nothing," Hank said. "Back to square one."

"I guess so," Nick said. "It's weird, because my instincts are telling me he's our guy. But maybe we're-"

It is entirely possible that Nick had a sudden stroke of genius - that his next half sentence would be the first step for a truly epic investigation that would push his and Hank's detective skills to the max, after several grueling weeks, a complicated game of cat and mouse, and a few more dead bodies. It's possible, but the world will never know, because at that exact moment, Wu decided to ope the door and essentially solve the case for them."

"Did you guys see that black truck parked outside?" He asked, with a giddiness usually reserved for children and candy shops. "I was walking by it, and in the back seat is this  _sweet_ looking broadsword. I kid you not, I would trade my firstborn for a chance to swing that thing around."

"A broadsword?" Nick asked.

He and Hank shared a look.

"Ah, crap."

XX

Since she was young, Theresa Rubel had been known simply as Trubel. A bit on the nose, perhaps, but she had gown fond of the nickname, in a weird sort of way. "Here comes Theresa," simply didn't have the same _oomph_ and  _oomph_ was especially useful now that she was in the business of finding the things that gave people nightmares and then beating the crap out of them. 

After her disastrous attempt at cooking breakfast for Nick, the person that had taken her in and given a stable home for the first time in years, she had been eager to prove her usefulness in other ways. Quick experimentation had shown she had no knack for cleaning, or Christmas shopping, but when Juliette had mentioned that she honestly just wished she could head down to the precinct and drag Nick home, Trubel found something she could finally excel at. She had made up her mind - it was Christmas Eve, Nick had better things to be doing than working, and she wouldn't take no for an answer. If there was anything Trubel had a natural talent for, it was not taking no for an answer.

And so it was that she found herself walking down the sidewalk towards the precinct when she noticed Nick and Hank burst out the front door, casting wild looks in both directions. She raised a hand to wave to them, moving to the side so they could see her past the large, bearded, heavily tattooed man in front of her. 

"Trubel!" Nick shouted, spotting her and pointing at the man in front of her. "That's a suspect! Don't let him get away!"

Apparently the suspect didn't like that, because he took off running towards Trubel, seemingly intent on barreling through her and into the parking lot. Trubel, with reflexes gained from years of fighting for her life took a step back, to steady herself, and then let loose with a haymaker.

Grimms are, in fact, blessed with superior strength to the average human, which was generally useful in hunting down nightmarish creatures who were usually a bit stronger than the average bear themselves. It is often forgotten, however, just how much stronger than a regular human a Grimm can be - but there is little better reminder than a 5'8, 132 pound, 21 year old girl hitting a 6'2, 210 pound 32 year old man so hard that his feet literally leave the ground, sending him crashing back down to the concrete roughly five feet from where he started. 

Beyond not taking no for an answer, Trubel was also very good at hitting things. 

XX

"He  _flew_ ," Juliette said, the disbelief evident in both her face and voice.

"I can think of no better way to describe it," Hank said, taking a sip of wine from his glass. "You should've seen the look on his face when he woke up. Tried to claim he was hit by an NFL linebacker, or something."

The six of them - Nick, Juliette, Trouble, Monroe, Rosalee, and Hank - were seated in Monroe and Rosalee's living room, relaxing, trying to avoid knocking over any of the decorations, and enjoying a glass of Chardonnay (except for Trubel, who had drawn the short straw for designated driver.)

"So it was definitely him?" Rosalee asked. "A Kehrseite? Not even a Kehrseite-Schlick-Kennen?"

"I don't know what any of those words mean," Trubel said, "but he wasn't Wesen."

"Just a normal guy, committing a normal homicide, with a normal broadsword," Nick confirmed. 

"That he bought at a normal renaissance fair," Monroe said, shaking his head. "You know, it's been too long since I've been to one of those."

Rosalee shook her head. "Renaissance fair is where I draw the line. Way too creepy and anachronistic."

"I'll go," Trubel said. "If you can really buy stuff like broadswords there, that is. I've been looking for a good sword. Or a kukri. I like kukris."

"The girl's got good taste," Monroe said, laughing. 

"It's been too long since we've had a normal case, hasn't it?" Nick asked Hank, as Monroe and Trubel began discussing the pros and cons of bent swords. 

"It was a nice change of pace," Hank said. "And it's nice to finally have a case where we don't have to lie about the evidence."

"I'll drink to that," Nick said. And they did. And after that, they had another, and when they had had enough, they all decided that it was only fair Trubel drink as well.

Nick had a feeling it was going to be a complicated morning. 

**Author's Note:**

> So, Yuletide. I admit to starting a little late, and so the story's a bit rougher (and maybe a bit shorter) than I might've liked, but I hope you like it, Franzeska! Merry Christmas/Happy Hanukkah/Happy Kwanza/Happy Holidays!


End file.
